Yellow
by icearrows1200
Summary: "In nature, there are two primary sources of yellow: the sun and flowers." In which Linebeck and Ciela discuss the nature of captains, bravery, and the color yellow. Heavy angst, drinking, and not exactly a happy resolution. Very late Christmas fic for 8 Navy Roses!


In nature, there are two primary sources of yellow: the sun and flowers.

Of course, not all flowers fall under this category- only daffodils and buttercups come to mind. Offhandedly, he thinks of dandelions, as well, but those trot the fine line between flower and weed, pretty and pest.

Not to mention, flowers are born of the sun's rays, and so is everything that lives; at their stem, at their base, all is lush, bursting, _green_. Even people, to some extent, are green.

So, the sun is the only natural source of yellow, except for perhaps lemons and bananas, but those are also products of the sun and he's never liked either, anyway. Perhaps he should, though, in an effort to avoid scurvy. But there are other places that yellow occurs.

Gold, for instance.

Alright, that's natural, too, but only in its purest form. By the time it's been mined, shined, and processed, it boasts its lustrous yellow value in ornamental rings and rare rupees.

It's that kind of yellow that drives history. A lust for capital can wage wars and move mountains, which in a sense, is what he's doing right now. From here on out, all he has to do is navigate the boat, let the kid nab some pure metals, and that's it- the world's safe, he can run off as rich as a king, and he owes _nothing_.

How did he get to thinking about the color yellow, anyway?

Oh, right.

Across from him, playing a word game with Leaf and Neri, she's a sphere of new yellow; that is, she wasn't yellow a week ago. He thinks he liked her better when she resembled a puff of pink cotton. She was more annoying, for sure, but she didn't take everything so seriously; she spoke with him more. Not that he really cares about what she has to say, but to argue with her was a nice routine, and if she insulted him now, maybe he'd come up with something clever to say.

But she's a level above him, now, a spirit, and she doesn't need to bother with him, with her pale, banana color of status- he _still_ hates bananas- giggling with her counterparts, the primary colors, playing games as the ship chugs towards Mercay Island.

He can play games, too.

What's at the bottom of the bottle?

Only one way to find out.

Taking a long, unnoticed swig from his bottle, he hears the familiar bounding of Link's boots down the steps, but there's never any need to hide what he drinks from the kid. With what the boy's seen, Linebeck cynically reasons he'll be at the bottle by the time he's seventeen. He hopes it won't happen, but he doesn't see anyway around it.

There are things you can't unsee, but there is something far worse: to live in fear of what you might see.

"Another fifteen minutes and we'll be in port," Link reports, and drags a chair out so that he can join in on the fairies' word game.

And Linebeck is mortified about what might haunt him, given the chance.

He could never brave the Temple of the Ocean King, he doesn't know why he ever tried, because there are things no man, child, or even fairy should ever have to see, and yet they have.

"Linebeck, shouldn't you be getting the ship ready to dock?" Ciela pipes up, but it's not a question, it's an order- _she's_ just particularly good at blurring the lines between the two. He doesn't move a muscle; after all, it's _his_ ship, and she wouldn't know the first thing about navigation.

"Can't," He sneers, "I'm busy."

" _Busy_?" She guffaws, "What's so pertinent about your bottle of whiskey?"

"You see, Sparkles," With an indelicate _thunk_ , he sets the bottle down and leans back comfortably, "I'm preparing myself. When we fight- oh, what's his name…" He squints and presses his fingers to his temples.

"Bellum," Ciela deadpans.

"Aye, Bellum!" Linebeck exclaims, "When we fight Bellum, I need to be in my tip-top shape so I can…" He slurs, his head suddenly a ball of lead and his veins boiling over.

"You're _drunk_ ," Ciela seethes, revolted, "Link, do you know how to steer the ship into port? Captain Booze over here needs to get to bed." She gestures offhandedly at him, and he thinks about how offhanded he really is. Off of hand, out of hand.

Linebeck turns to Ciela and- because he absolutely can't help himself- grins mischievously, stupidly.

He can see her tense, a brief halt of her wings in mid-air, but at least it's some kind of reaction.

Suddenly, he rather wants to lie down, quell the headache that throbs to the beat of an unheard drum, rattling him, the empty bottle- a bottle which has hit him harder than ever before, and not in terms of alcohol content.

He slumps further in his seat, wishing he'd sink through the floor and into Hell. He's starting to regret the emptiness of the bottle, and wonders if he could will it out of his blood, out of the fool who's become drunk in front of a thirteen-year-old kid. _Old habits die hard_ , as they say, and _you can't teach an old dog new tricks_. Is his habit _old_ , is _he_ old? These questions are easier to answer when his head's not reeling. Not as bad as it could be, but certainly not as good.

"Why do you do this?" Ciela suddenly draws him out of his murky thoughts, but her tone isn't overly sympathetic. Link is at the helm already, maneuvering the ship to dock, and Linebeck can't help but feel like it's no longer his own ship; maybe Link and Ciela _do_ own it.

Linebeck hardly answers- that is, he lets out a pathetic huff.

"Grandpa is going to give you a wish, anything you desire. Can't you at least stay sober for _that_?"

"Shut it, Sparkles. Don't pretend like… like I'm some kind of drunk. I might _be_ drunk, but that's just what sailors _do_ …" He pauses, attempting to enunciate his words, "From time to time."

"Maybe sailors, but not captains."

He jerks his head to glare at her, and she's landed on the table near his hand, which is surprisingly, painfully intimate, especially when she's become a yellow blob of color on the table.

"What's the difference?" He sneers, though he well knows the technical difference.

"Captains are brave, Linebeck."

He's surprised she's said it, that this jab at him is deeper than usual, because she _means_ it. Anything else, everything else, they use as insults are merely tools, tools of leverage and communication.

He wonders if she knows, then, that yellow is the color of cowardice. A yellow-bellied sailor, as they used to say. Her dandelion-banana-lemon-gold hue of pride and status is nothing more than the color of men and boys who flee battle, resort to the bottle.

"Then what am I, Sparkles?" He slurs, "A cabin boy? No one can be brave _all_ the time. Not even you."

"Yeah, I can."

"Then you're going to wind up dead."

"At least it'd be for a cause," With a flourish, she leaps from the table and hovers in mid-air for a beat, then turns and flutters away.

"Self-preservation!" He calls after her, because he knows she's listening, "It's the noblest kind of bravery. You've got to… be brave enough to let yourself be the most important. It's not that hard."

Without facing him, she says, "Not for you, I suppose."

The boat lurches to a halt, Link's handiwork and many skills paying off as he maneuvers it parallel to the dock.

"I guess you're not coming," Ciela remarks sharply, "…as usual."

"Nope," Linebeck stands and instantly sways, clutching the edge of the table for balance. "I ought to get to bed. I'll leave all the fun to you guys."

" _Fun_?" Ciela fumes, and Linebeck is unable to repress his euphoria- he laughs stupidly, because oh, _yes_ , he's finally gotten a reaction from her, here she goes on her mile-long rant that Linebeck will tune out anyway.

"Sometimes I fear we'll _die_ , Linebeck- how's _that_ fun?"

"Oh, so you admit it- you can't be brave _all_ the time, huh?" He snorts indelicately and gestures at Link, who stands at the door to the hull with one hand frozen in the process of turning the doorknob and his body facing Linebeck and Ciela, listening intently. What can he say? The kid's a sucker for drama.

Ciela freezes as well, a floating statue, and there's a moment where everyone in the room is rigid with anticipation, wildly conjecturing Ciela's response.

Everyone, evidently, except for Ciela, because she leaves Linebeck's side and flutters away calmly- however _false_ that calm fluttering may be- and joins Link. Silently, Leaf and Neri follow suit, leaving Linebeck behind as the drunken fool he is, unsupported by even the most unspoken or half-hearted of allies.

Red-nosed and clammy, he sinks back down into his seat, finding his distorted reflection in the whiskey bottle incentive enough to close his eyes.

The brief moment of darkness may have lasted a century, but he never does fall asleep, because the sound of bells rings in his ears merely a heartbeat later. He opens his heavy-lidded eyes and knows she's there.

"What do you _want_?" He manages, hardly glancing at her as he stands and chucks the empty bottle into a crate with its brothers and sisters. "You're not here to apologize, are you?"

Satisfied, he awaits her response, projecting his confidence over the full crate of empty whiskey bottles. "I'm waiting, Sparkles…"

His demeanor is shattered by impatience, and he turns around to find no one at all.

In fact, Linebeck is the only one who has set foot on his ship for over a month.

Expression fallen, his giddy grin melting like hot metal, Linebeck rummages for another bottle, full and teeming with the possibility of getting absolutely, completely hammered.

It's easier to have conversations this way- one-sided with no repercussions and, the drunker he gets, the more likely she is to respond. Sometimes it's Link he imagines, but mostly Ciela for the pure sake of knowing she- even as a figment of his imagination- will talk to him.

And that's how he knows it wasn't real- the _real_ Ciela would have never backed out of an argument. She might have _pretended_ she was better than him, but she craved controversy and debate just as much as he did. Here he was, guzzling liquor because it was the only way to find that debate he so coveted.

Through the porthole, evening light beams in from the west, blindingly yellow. It's a bit of a game that nature likes to play with him: finding bits of gold and yellow and giving them to him as small tokens of the not-too-distant past.

He can play games, too.

What's at the bottom of the bottle?

Only one way to find out.

* * *

This is a (very late) Christmas fic for 8 Navy Roses, a great friend and wonderful writer! If you like the Cielinebeck ship, then you ought to go check out her works! I meant for this to be happier with a better resolution, but it just sort of came out this way. Please make of it what you will.

Oh, and ctj, if you're reading this, I'm working on your (late) Christmas fic as you read this.

As always, thank you for reading!


End file.
